Bran

The raven's wings beat against the air. It flew high above the ground where the wind was stronger. Cold white flakes were falling from the grey clouds above him. They landed only to cover the frozen water and the dense trees swimming in it, stretching out for as far as the eye could see. His black feathers protected him from most of the cold in the air but did not stop it entirely; he was still quite chilly. All his instincts were telling him to continue flying in the direction which the red light in the sky had been coming from since it appeared, but the humans wanted the thing tied around his leg taken somewhere, so he would.

The raven had been bothered by something since he set off at first light. In the back of his conciousness, there was some sort of strange presence. It clawed at the rest of his mind, telling him when to beat his wings and what direction to fly in. Whenever he would set off from the grey, man-rock nest next to the great woods, he would normally finish his flight by landing at the three tall, narrow nests made of black, man-rock that sat on the great dirt track which the humans travelled up & down on horses. The presense had willed him to go past those nests, continuing further & further. He was helpless to resist. No matter how much he wanted to land at the black, man-rock nests, the presence wouldn't let him. So here he was, flying over lands of frozen water and dense trees. The presense was looking for something, the raven could tell: a man-nest sitting in the waters that no raven could normally find.

The man-nest took an extra half day of flight to find. The sun reached its highest point before the presense felt different and the raven saw the man-nest that it was looking for. It sat on a patch of moss covered land in a large body of water not yet frozen by the cold air. The nest was made of dead trees that men had cut down and reshaped. One narrow spike topped a squat base surrounded by a ring of dead trees that men stood upon, brandishing tall, metal claws and narrow sticks that humans would send flying by bending them agianst curved branches.

The raven chose to set down on a small cleft at the top of the narrow wooden spike. The cleft was covered in snow. He could not enter the spike because there was a see-through barrier that humans used to block entrance into their nests from clefts the like the one he stood on. With his long, black beak, the raven tapped the barrier. A man was inside the nest, sitting on & at other reshaped trees. Clearly the raven's tapping got the man's attention, because he stood to walk toward the barrirer and move it out of the way. The raven took wing and landed on the dead tree the man had been sitting at. The man was short, with grey fur atop his head.

"Bran," the raven was compelled to quork. "Bran, Bran, Bran." The man walked over to the raven and picked him up gently, removing the thing around his leg. The man flicked his eyes over it after putting the raven down.

"Meera's alive!" the man uttered softly.

"Bran, Bran," the raven quorked again, "Bran, Bran, Bran..."

"Bran," Meera said softly, shaking his shoulder slightly. Bran looked at her.

"The raven's gotten to your father," Bran told her. "Most like he'll set out as soon as he can."

Meera nodded. "The cooks are dishing out lunch in the great hall, I wanted to know if you wanted anything."

"Stew and bread will be fine," Bran answered. "Eat your lunch in the hall before you bring me mine." Meera smiled before walking off. She was wearing a smart tunic & breeches that she'd been given by the castle steward. It was strange to not see her in the sheepskin furs that he'd gotten so used to seeing her in beyond the Wall, but he had plenty of time to get used to it. The only time she wasn't at Bran's side was when he was searching the past. She would spend that time in the yard, training to use sword and bow and spear, like everyone else.

Finding the Weirwood throne had only helped Bran use his powers. Being surrounded by Weirwood roots seemed to make it easier for him to focus while searching. Since Jon left two days ago, Bran had been doing his best to search for moments of Littlefinger that would likely make the treasonous lord panic enough that he would risk trying to leave Winterfell. The ones Bran had come upon all showed Littlefinger with Bran's father, mother or Sansa. In fact that was something he'd noticed about all the moments he saw: they would always be ones with his family. It is probably easier because they are my relatives. The theory had been bubbling in his head.

While Meera was getting him something to eat, Bran slipped into the past. He didn't need to worry about not being awake when she returned; over the last few days, firmly shaking him by the shoulder had been a reliable enough method to bring him back from the Weirwood network: he couldn't think of a better name for it. It would always begin with him standing in a black void of nothing before an inifinty of images would flash into view; creating a noise that would near deafen him. That would last only an instant before the images slowed and the volume decreased.

From there he would focus on what he wanted to find, keeping the subject a solid thought in his mind. Starting off, he'd aimless wondered through different moments, finding times of himself as a boy. He'd seen his birth and all his namedays. He'd seen the time when Robb had led him, Arya, Sansa and Rickon into the crypts to see their grandfather's statue, only to have Jon jump out in front of them half there, covered in flour and screaming at the top of his lungs. Jon & Robb had started to laugh hysterically, stopping when Rickon began to cry. While Bran & Arya saw to comforting their youngest brother, Sansa had hit both of them and scolded them. As he watched the moment, Bran hadn't failed to notice Sansa had been harder on Jon, even threatening him with telling their mother about causing Rickon to cry. She treated him so coldly before we all left Winterfell. Bran could only be glad that had changed.

One thing he'd been sad to see again was his first beheading, the one he'd seen before King Robert visited... before he'd fallen from the tower. Seeing that beheading had led to him reliving all the events leading up to his fall. The King's arrival, the feast in the hall, seeing Father for the last time, climbing the tower, Jaime Lannister saying, "The things I do for love," before he pushed Bran from the window, falling onto the Godswood floor. Bran had screamed in anguish as he came out of the past and Meera had done her best to comfort him.

Slipping into the past today, the first image that he found was that of Father meeting Littlefinger the day he first arrived in King's Landing, which Bran had seen before. The thought of Uncle Brandon beating Littlefinger in the duel for Mother's hand never ceased to bring a smile to Bran's lips. The next image he saw was Littlefinger speaking to Sansa on a dock in King's Landing. Seeing Sansa happy is always nice, Bran thought. The thought led to him onto seeing her talk with an old woman and a young woman about marrying a man named Loras. He expected to follow Sansa after this image, but didn't. The next image he saw was the old woman – Olenna Tyrell, that was her name – speaking with the bald Lord Varys, who had tried to get father safely to the Wall. They were talking about something he couldn't recall after the image changed. The next thing Bran saw was Lord Varys in the throne room of the Red Keep, speaking to Littlefinger. Again, he could not recall what they discussed. The only thing that Bran rememebered was Littlefinger saying, "Chaos is a ladder."

Bran returned from the Weirwood network, expecting to Meera to have returned from the great hall but finding her nowhere in evidence. The throne chamber was dimly lit by torches hanging in the iron sconces on the walls. They did nothing for warming the place, that was why Bran wore his cloak around his shoudlers and laid a blanket over his lap. With how the throne was positoned, sitting in it gave Bran a clear view of anyone walking toward the chamber from the crypts. As it would just so happen, someone was – it wasn't Meera.

"Hello Lord Baelish," Bran said, coldly curt.

The thin man walked into the chamber, a short smile on his face. "Hello Brandon," he greeted with all the false curtesy of fomrality. "I'm pleased you made it home safely." Littlefinger sat on Bran's wheelchair, which was sitting next to the throne. "Knowing another of Cat's children is in Winterfell again brings me great joy."

"What are you here for Baelish?" Bran asked bluntly.

"I just wanted to talk," Baelish answered, as the pair of them were best friends. "I'm one of your bannermen. It's probably best we get to know each other."

"You're not my bannerman, you're Jon's bannerman," Bran said. "He is the head of House Stark." Littlefinger's smile twitched. It was only a subtle twitch, but a twitch nonetheless.

"Aren't you troubled by that?" he asked. "Jon is, after all, your bastard brother. By rights, as your father's last living, trueborn son, you should be wearing the northern crown".

Bran frowned. "No I shouldn't, Lord Baelish. By naming Jon their King, the northern lords & ladies legitamised him collectively. Therefore Jon is first in the line of succession after Robb, before me. Besides, I'm not fit to be a king. I was never fully taught what is required of a good lord before my father went south, Jon was. Eventhough he was a bastard then, my father still made sure that Jon learned every lesson Robb had to."

Baelish frowned, then sighed. "I thought you might want to see this." He produced a dagger from his belt and handed it to Bran. The handle was dragonbone. Unseathing it showed the blade was valyrian steel, dim light reflecting off of it. "It's the dagger that was used in an attempt on your life," Baelish explained as Bran examined the blade. It was very light and the edge looked extremely sharp

"I knew that," Bran replied, nonchalant. He watched Littlefinger's eyebrows knit.

"How would you know?" Baelish asked, puzzled. Bran sheathed the blade again, but kept hold of it.

"Because I saw my father show it to you." Baelish swallowed. "I believe you are unaware of why I was away from the castle in the first place, so I'll tell. I was beyond the Wall learning from someone called the Three-Eyed Raven. He taught me how to see the past and since I returned to Winterfell, I've been my best to practice this ability." Baelish's face dropped completely. "Don't give me that look, My Lord."

Littlefinger went to snatch the dagger, but Bran held it tight saying, "No, no, no. You don't get to keep this. A man as dispicable as you doesn't deserve valyrian steel. I will give it to a man who deserves it, should such a time arise. I'd tell you to leave this castle and never return, but our King has ordered you to remain so that's what you'll do. Otherwise you will face the punishment any traitor deserves."

Littlefinger scowled, then was gone, retreating like the weasle he was. Bran placed the dagger in a pocket on the inside of his cloak. Baelish passed Meera as she walked into the chamber, holding a tray with a bowl of stew and some bread on it. She looked confused. "What was he so bitter about?" she asked.

"Something I said," Bran answered, taking the bowl. Gripping the spoon, Bran picked up some of the stew. The broth was thin but the large chunks of potatoe and beef made up for it. Placing the spoonful in his mouth, Bran smiled. It was the taste of home. "I missed food this good." Meera smiled her agreement. "Do you remember where Jon's solar is?"

"Yes."

Bran produced the dagger from his pocket. "Place this with Dark Sister." Meera took the blade and unseathed it. Realising it was another valyrian weapon, she covered the blade and was off again. Bran finished his stew – having mopped up the spare broth with the bread – and strechted his arm out to put the bowl on his wheelchair. Instead of returning to the past, he rolled his eyes back; finding a crow atop the ramparts.

The air was cold and the wind soft. Somewhere in the man-nest, humans were clashing metal claws while atop horses. The crow took wing and flew over the castle to the man-nest's entrance facing the sun and the burning red light. Sitting above the entrance in-between two pieces of man-rock jutting out of a larger piece, the crow watched as a small man moved toward the entrance on top of a horse. Two men on foot blocked his way while another ran off in the direction of the clashing metal claws. The small man was barking at the two blocking his way. Somewhere in the back of the crow's mind, he could picture a human's mouth curling into a smile.